“Perhaps we could play a game sometime soon, or are you not allowed to play games while you are on duty?”
“I play games.”
Rostnikov watched as Aleksandr Chenko moved quickly up the path. When Rostnikov was about to lose sight of him behind a bend of bushes, Chenko turned and waved. Rostnikov waved back. When he could no longer see the young man, Rostnikov took out his notebook and pencil and made the following note:
Aleksandr Chenko
Volga Grocery, does it carry Nitin wine? Is there any record of Chenko buying it? Where does he live? Does he drink guava juice?
?
Then Porfiry Petrovich went back to reading his book.
6
“I did not call them,” said Albina Babinski.
She sat, as disheveled as she had been the previous day when Vera Korstov had come to her apartment. The widow of Fedot Babinski seemed to be wearing the same house dress and holding the same fingerprint-besmirched glass of vodka.
Vera was certain that the two men who now stood before her were the police.
She considered stepping back quickly, pulling the still-open door closed, and dashing for the stairway. Vera was, after all, a former athlete who still competed from time to time in park district competitions. She could certainly outdistance the slouching, sad-eyed man who stood facing her on her left. She might even be able to make it down the stairs ahead of the broad-shouldered dark man who stood to her right.
What Vera did not know was whether there might be more police waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“You have my two hundred euros?” asked Albina. “You promised. I trusted you.”
“Who are you?” asked Iosef Rostnikov.
“Who are you?” Vera responded.
“I am Inspector Rostnikov. This is Inspector Zelach.”
Zelach moved behind Vera and closed the door. All thought of flight was now gone, so she decided to lie.
“I am a journalist with Sputnik Secrets Magazine,” Vera said.
“You owe me. .,” Albina muttered but was ignored.
“You have credentials?” asked Iosef.
“I can get them,” said Vera.
“You do not carry them?”
“I have broken no laws,” said Vera.
“I am keeping the money you have already given me,” said Albina. “And that is that.”
“Your identification cards, please,” said Iosef.
Vera reached into the black cloth bag slung over her shoulder. Zelach stood close by, ready in case a weapon was drawn. Vera came up with a wallet and extracted several cards.
Iosef examined the cards and handed them to Zelach, who punched a number into his cell phone. Vera glanced at Zelach and then with a sigh faced the more formidable-looking of the policemen.
Zelach was far more comfortable with a standard phone, one with buttons, one that looked like a phone and not like a box such as the one in which his mother held her daily pills. In truth, Zelach was not comfortable with any phone. He disliked the silences that he was expected to fill.
Vera could hear Zelach talking softly on the phone. Albina, the widow, sat mumbling softly to herself. The policeman named Rostnikov spoke. Vera tried to focus on his words, to buy time for Ivan Medivkin, but the policeman was not selling time.
“You think the weather is really about to change?” Iosef asked.
“Why do you ask me that?” said Vera.
“Because I am trying to bring you back to the conversation from the world in which you appear to be searching for a way to deal with me.”
“I have nothing to say,” she said.
Iosef looked at the window where a lone cluster of gray ice about the size of a hand was slithering down the glass. He nodded and turned to watch Zelach press the “end” button on his phone.
“I have it,” said Zelach.
“Good. Let us go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Vera.
“To your apartment,” said Iosef.
Albina began to rise. Iosef raised a hand to signal to her to resume her seat. She sat reluctantly.
“I am a widow,” said Albina, examining her now-empty glass. “I have rights.”
“And which of those rights do you wish to invoke?” asked Iosef.
The question puzzled the widow, who ran her fingers through her wild hair, allowing her breasts to spread the nightgown.
“Akardy,” said Iosef. “Call for uniformed backup. Have them pick us up here as soon as possible. We may be walking in on Ivan Medivkin.”
Iosef looked at Vera Korstov again.
“Have I guessed correctly?”
“Let me talk to him,” said Vera. “He will not give you trouble.”
“We shall see when we get there,” said Iosef.
“He did not kill them,” she said.
Iosef said nothing.
“Ivan will not give you trouble,” Vera repeated.
Iosef certainly hoped this would be true. He had never arrested a giant before, particularly one who might well become the heavyweight champion of the world if he was not in prison for murder.
Olga Grinkova bore little resemblance to the woman who had called herself Svetlana the night before. Iris found the transformation incredible, the material of which prizewinning stories are made.
Olga was no more than twenty, cheeks slightly pink, eyes wide and frightened, hands at her sides, more girl than woman. Her dark skirt hemmed below the knee and her white up-to-the-neck sweater fit loosely. Olga kept pushing her sleeves up and the sleeves kept refusing to cooperate. When she spoke it was with the voice of a shopgirl who had lost her confidence.
Svetlana had been sultry, dark, confident, almost bored, and carefully made up for the evening. Her dress had been formfitting, with the revelation of promising cleavage. Svetlana’s voice had held a promising huskiness not unlike that of a young Lauren Bacall.
They were seated now at a table in the hotel’s small breakfast room. There was a buffet of yogurt, cold cuts, hard-boiled eggs, and cheese. A pitcher of water was surrounded by glasses.
“Room number?” asked the plump blond girl who stood over the table.
Iris tried to imagine Olga transformed into a sultry prostitute named Svetlana.
“Room Four-eighteen,” said Iris. “Does anyone want breakfast?”
“Coffee,” said Sasha, looking at Elena, who met his eyes.
Coffee was agreed upon and the blond girl moved off slowly. There was only one other person in the breakfast room, a well-dressed man of at least seventy who read a newspaper and ate very slowly.
Olga Grinkova kept her hands in her lap to hide their trembling.
“They killed Daniel,” Olga said, forcing herself to speak slowly and distinctly.
“Why?” asked Iris.
“Because he spoke to you,” said Olga. “That is why they want to kill me. You have already been told that. It is not right that they should want to kill me. I did not ask to speak to you. It was Daniel who told me to do it. Now. . I am alive only because I mentioned Pavel Petrov and saw the car, the black American car with the little flag on the. .”
She made a motion that looked as if she were miming the act of pulling a thin piece of string into the air.
“Antenna,” said Sasha.
“Yes,” said Olga. “Antenna. I recognized the car parked across the street from the entrance to my apartment building. It belongs to them, the two men who even Daniel was afraid of.”
And with good reason, it seems, thought Iris, who wanted to pull out her notebook but thought this a time for consoling and not writing.
“I knew when I saw them,” Olga said. “I knew.”
“How did you know Daniel was dead?” asked Elena.
Olga looked at Elena, who touched her arm and said gently, “Go on.”
“I did not go to my apartment,” said Olga. “I found a cab and went to Daniel’s to ask him why the men in the American car were waiting for me. Daniel lives. . lived not far from where we. . where we work. His apartment is on the first floor. If you work the outside door just right, it will open. I also know where Daniel hid his spare key, under the carpeting on the sixth step at the end of the hall.”